The moon landing was 40 years ago; leave it alone, it was real.

July 20, 1969.   Maybe you’re too young to remember, and if so, could you bear with the ramblings of an aged Hippie for a little while? One who most certainly will never forget, for reasons soon to become obvious.  It grieves me that in the climate of wars, distrust and general dissatisfaction that seems to abound in the 21st century, that this magnificent achievement has somehow been forgotten.  I hope I might be wrong.    Also, the efforts to discredit such a magnificent achievement by calling into question its veracity are despicable, at least to me.   

In telling of a personal experience on that day, I wonder if I remember it so well because of the adventure, or was it the greatness of the day?  At the time, my best friend Marie and I were hitchhiking around Europe for three weeks on a combined budget of £60.00, excluding the boat fare back home to Belfast.  That would be about $120 dollars in money today!  Everybody was doing it and peace and love abounded, in reality.  It seemed that every stranger was a friend. Most were.

We had planned this trip for a year. Aged 22 and 20, we felt very sophisticated and world-wise.  We thought we had everything covered but neglected to purchase a map of Europe, though our progress to the historic date, 10 days into the great trek, had been satisfactory.  We just borrowed a peek at other hikers’ maps now and then and trusted to the wisdom and information provided by the International Youth Hosteling Association Handbook. 

So happy were we, trudging and riding by thumb through Belgium, Holland, Germany etc. that we were oblivious to anything more important than making ourselves understood, flirting with gorgeous foreign hitch hikers and finding the local youth hostels. 

That bright, sunny morning, we rose early to leave Cologne for Munich, having endured a weekend of rudeness from the locals, redeemed by the wholesome ‘niceness’ of a family of Bible Belt Americans.  They were staying at the youth hostel en famile, with lots of jolly laughter and names ending in Jo – e.g. Billy-Jo, Mary-Jo and so on. You had to smile with them.  During our stay in the city, we were ordered out of the magnificent Cologne Cathedral while attempting to attend Sunday Mass.  But when we waved our rosary beads in the face of the huge sacristan bent on ejecting us, he relented.  We then suffered a two-hour long sung, solemn High Mass with a sermon to rival the Nuremberg Rallies.  Oh well, it was an experience, I suppose, not to be repeated if I can help it. Meanwhile, at Cape Canaveral…..